Having heard the widely disseminated news of Maggie Drummond’s rape, all the Gentleman Walkers came to a venue Carmine thought ideal for an observer down on the podium, as every face was visible in the curved tiers of seats.
Delia and Helen sat on the podium flanking Mark Sugarman on one side, with Carmine and Nick on his other side. The Walkers stared hard at them, but hardest at Helen, whom most of them seemed to know. Probably, thought Delia, we don’t look much like cops, between two women and a black man.
Mark Sugarman began. “I’m sure you know that Maggie Drummond has been raped, but what you won’t know is that six other girls have come forward—I won’t name names, but some of you will make educated guesses. You’re here tonight to meet the police in charge of the case, answer their questions, and ask questions.”
He introduced Carmine and his team, while Carmine’s eyes continued to rove across the assembled ranks. Easy to decide who was Mason Novak and who Kurt von Fahlendorf; they sat together in the front row, together with a very elderly fellow of the kind Carmine always called a “Dapper Dan”—a bit like the 1930s movie star, William Powell, even including the little mustache.
Kurt von Fahlendorf was a looker in any language. Six feet tall, a good physique, and the kind of Nordic good looks a fan of Teutonic myth might associate with Siegfried. His crew-cut hair was so fair that it glittered as if made of frost—no fan of the fashionable Beatles-length hair here! His eyes were the same shade of ice-blue as Desdemona’s, and his facial features sharply defined, including high cheekbones that made it easy to mentally put a Wehrmacht general’s cap on his head. Odd, that he didn’t look Gestapo. Maybe that’s because I heard Helen on Prussian junkers? To Carmine he seemed cold in a scientific way; the eyes were extremely intelligent, but not involved as were the eyes of Mason Novak next to him. This was a passionate man, about the same height and physique as von Fahlendorf, but coppery in coloring and owning a face most women would probably prefer to the Prussian’s; despite his facial irregularities, Mason was powerfully attractive. The heart and soul of the Gentleman Walkers? Yes, he looked all of that. The way he and Kurt sat said that they were very good friends who trusted each other, which said a lot about both men. Probably not the Dodo.
Mark then asked each Walker to rise and give his name; after driving around Carew and looking at records, this was a bonus Carmine hadn’t expected. He had imagined that he would be obliged to demand identification, which would have put the meeting on a different, more antagonistic footing. Sugarman was a good guy. Feinman was a youthful sixty-eight, fit and appealing; he probably had no trouble pulling women. Arnold Hedberg looked studious, Mike Donahue looked as if he went rock climbing for pleasure, Gregory Pendleton was darkly handsome, Bill Mitski a “gold” man—hair, eyes, skin.
What all shared was remarkable physical fitness, and none was small in stature, maybe because small men would have found it hard to stay in stride with long-legged men: a man’s height was in his legs, not his trunk.
“Our patrols are convivial because we always walk with the same companions,” said Dapper Dave.
“Do you roster everybody?” Delia asked.
“Yes, for every second night, come hell or rainstorms,” Sugarman answered. “We field twenty-four trios, with two men in reserve. As Dave says, always the same three men in a trio. They sorted themselves out amicably during the first six weeks, and haven’t changed since. So on any one night, we saturate the district. That’s why we don’t understand how we’ve missed him.”
“You walk at the wrong hour, Mr. Sugarman,” Nick said. “He starts earlier than you do, so by the time you’re on the streets, he’s already inside his premises of choice.”
“Yes, but he has to come out!”
“If he were a run-of-the-mill rapist, sir, you’re right, he would be leaving while you’re patrolling. Unfortunately he makes a night of it,” Nick said. “Instead of attacking and leaving at once, he remains—and rapes multiple times—for about five hours. So he’s in before you start, and not out until way after you’ve all gone home.”
“We’re useless!” Mason Novak cried, voice breaking.
“No, sir, you’re not,” Carmine said in a strong, positive voice. “Look at what you know you’ve done! While you’re on the streets patrolling, the women of Carew know they can walk safely. You’ve apprehended three potential rapists. And as long as you enjoy the exercise, keep on going. Your activities may not affect the Dodo, but they do make Carew safer nonetheless.”
That made them feel better; they began to sit up straighter, murmur among themselves.
“You’ve saturated the district between six and seven-thirty,” Delia said, “which is particularly important now that the days are drawing in. Do women ever approach you to walk with them?”
“The last couple of days, yes,” Gregory Pendleton said.
“That’s a trend will increase,” Carmine said. “Believe me, the women of Carew are grateful for the Gentleman Walkers.”
“Is there anything we can do to improve our technique?” Mark Sugarman asked.
“You could split into two shifts, the second one from seven-thirty until nine, but it’s not going to affect the Dodo.”
“Is that his police tag?” Bill Mitski asked. “It’s what he calls himself. Didus ineptus. The old Latin name for the Dodo. We’re using the English form, Dodo.”
Mason Novak scowled, displeased. “The media will love it.”
“True, and that carries some advantages, Mr. Novak. We’ll get publicity when we need it because the name is catchy. That may be why the Dodo picked it.”
“He’ll get publicity too,” said Arnold Hedberg.
“If by that you’re assuming the Dodo is a publicity hound, sir, you’re wrong,” Carmine said, fighting to remember his name. “The Dodo has been plying his craft in absolute secrecy for nearly seven months, which I think says loud and clear that he doesn’t want publicity. Maggie Drummond was a mistake, Professor Hedberg, but he had no way of knowing how brave she is. He couldn’t frighten her into silence. Now the police are aware of his activities, and his earlier victims have found the courage to speak up. Life is getting harder for the Dodo.”
“Should we disband?” Mason Novak asked, despondent now.
Carmine looked surprised. “Now why would any cop want to disband a gentlemen’s walking club? Haven’t I already indicated what a good job the Gentleman Walkers are doing? Let’s hear no more about disbanding, please.” He’s mercurial, Carmine was thinking as he spoke the soothing words; Mason Novak isn’t quite stable, but luckily Sugarman knows it, and can handle him.
He spoke aloud again, but in a different voice: this one was stern, minatory, expressive. “I want all of you to remember one thing, sirs. The Dodo is not a peeping Tom, an underwear thief, or a simple stalker. He’s the big cat of sexual predators—cunning, awake on all counts, innovative, and silent. There’s a great deal more to him than meets the eye. The person his colleagues,